


Beneath the Surface

by thebaddestwolf



Category: Doctor Who RPF
Genre: F/M, One Shot, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-21
Updated: 2014-02-21
Packaged: 2018-01-13 05:49:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,176
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1215022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebaddestwolf/pseuds/thebaddestwolf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Filming the 50th Anniversary episode stirs up old feelings.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Beneath the Surface

If David can find solace in anything, it’s that she started it this time.

Although, when he allows himself to think about it, solace feels like something more akin to pride. 

Pride that bunched in his stomach as she slid the toe of her heel down his calf at dinner, as she scraped her nails along his neck between takes, as her eyes followed him heavy and bright across the studio floor. 

Pride that thawed when she stroked Matt’s arm, trying to find the balance between her two eager friends, drawing a scowl from David as he wondered if the old rumors about those two were true. 

The first time he sees her in costume he blanches. He’s known she’s not Rose Tyler, not this time, but seeing her in this tattered clothing reminds him of the mess they’ve made; the mess  _he_  started one afternoon by shoving that denim skirt over her hips the moment they stepped inside his trailer. They had shredded her tights in their haste, the prop shackles left dangling off her wrist. 

Today, he sits next to her on the couch by the coffee machine and traces each tear with his fingertips, focusing on the feel of where the textured nylon meets her flushing skin. She shifts subtly to allow him more access, exposing open ovals leading up the inside of her thigh. 

Thinking briefly of fissures in time, and how they very well may have stepped through one, he accepts her invitation, succeeding in circling one rip before sliding his hand up her leg, gripping her flesh as he moves, squeezing out a sigh. 

Only her mouth says  _don’t_.

His fingers begin to loosen when she grabs the lapels of his jacket, black nails closing around brown pinstripes, pulling him over her until her breath is puffing on his chin.

Her lashes flutter for a moment before her eyes meet his, searching him for something, opening her mouth to speak when a PA enters the room to call them to set, awkwardly shifting from one foot to another.

While filming they nearly cock it all up, unable to keep their eyes from drifting to each other’s like magnetic poles; and not for the first time he wishes she  _was_  Rose, tethered to his side, his thumb tracing teasing patterns on the back of her hand. 

During a break she whispers her room number in his ear, but he devises other plans. This should feel less like holiday and more like closure. It’s the end to many chapters, and David knows the best last lines are those that mirror the first. 

It’s a wrap for a day and his hand is in hers, leading her through the familiar studio hallways. It’s fitting, really, that Billie’s old dressing room now belongs to Matt. It’s convenient, too, that Matt is still on set filming promotional footage, leaving them a solid window of time.

Billie’s face wears a mask of scandal as he guides her inside the dark room, but he knows her better, knows that her stomach teeters with the prospect of getting caught. He has the ratty smock up around her ribcage as the door closes behind her back, the hot skin of her waist burning his possessive fingers. 

The room fills with her gasps as he pulls the garment over her head, leaving her in a thin bra and the tattered tights. His hands roam her body and his lips do too, sure to mark her only below the costume’s neckline, latching on below her collarbone and sucking hard. 

His mind is racing, feeling the heavy presence of the future while being lulled by the past. She’s not helping either, palming his throbbing length through his trousers, easing open his fly. 

Fingers trace the curve of her bum as his mouth finds her breast, wetting the thin fabric of her bra until it’s clinging to her skin, hard nipple pliant between his teeth. Her gasps turn to moans as his hands skirt lower, gripping the damp fabric of the tights at her core and tearing them open with a loud rip. 

She wasn’t wearing knickers that first time when the tights were black. Today is no different.

There are a number of things he wants to do to her; make her come with just his fingers, taste her tanginess on his tongue, feel her hands in his hair and her knee over his shoulder, hear the back of her head hit the door as she comes again. 

There’s one thing she’d like to do to him, and he can tell, the way she licks her lips as she works out the risks, calculates the time they have to work with as he bucks against her hand. 

But he’s already made up his mind, impatient for it to end as well as start, so in one quick motion he lifts her onto the countertop, remembering that it was always the perfect height. 

Then he’s inside her, just like that, and she tenses like she always does, or always did, her toes curling into the sides of his thighs. 

And,  _fuck_ , he regrets rushing already, because he feels so good inside her, because he’s missed the way she clings to him, the sounds she makes beside his ear. But his body rushes on, searching for release, and so he slams into her, again and again, mouthing words of forgiveness into her skin.

That’s when she kisses him, grabbing his face between her hands and covering his lips with hers, wet and hot and desperate. It’s the moment he’ll remember most often, when it’s all said and done, because it’s the first time he realizes they’re feeling the very same thing. 

Soon she releases him to breathe, pressing her mouth to his shoulder to muffle her increasing moans. But that won’t do, so David thrusts into her even harder, snaking a hand between them to smooth firm ovals on her clit. She quakes beneath his touch and calls out, breathy moans echoing through the room that once was hers, exposing the column of her throat that he once claimed for his. 

He can’t help but kiss her there as he comes, not caring about leaving marks as he feels his old scar tissue loosen. She shudders around him one last time as he groans, as his teeth sink into her skin. 

The wind up curled up on the couch, reluctant to leave this stolen space, and he traces the welt on her neck with his fingers. He worries aloud what the make up girl might say in the morning.

"They can cover it up," she assures him, planting a light kiss on his jaw. "You can’t even see my tattoos."

She proffers him her left arm, temporarily free of the her wedding date, of her husband’s name on her finger. 

He quirks an eyebrow and she giggles as his mouth returns to her neck, intent on making the red welt brighter.

What does it matter, anyway, if you can’t tell what’s beneath the surface. 


End file.
